


TBI

by tulioandesmi



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tulioandesmi/pseuds/tulioandesmi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The loss of a single ship starts a terrible chain of events on the Slepnir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DEIMOS

It was a sound he knew well. The sound of bodies falling to the ground, of broken bones crunching together, of mechanized wheels screeching to a sudden halt and above it all a high, hopeless keen, so like the sound his mother had made when his younger sister had been shot down by the Colonial Guard, so reminiscent and so vivid as it rang in his ears that Deimos was stumbling down the ladder of his ship and back onto his feet before he knew it, running over towards the crumpled body of his sister before someone could kick her limp form further into the dirt, muscles flexing as he readied himself to drag her out of the street--

But the source of the screaming wasn't his mother, it wasn't a colonial at all; a white mop of hair greeted him instead, flecked with blood and smoking slightly at the edges, so bright that it nearly blinded him, made him pause, and someone else used that moment to shove him aside and make their way over to the wreckage. A medic yanked the white-haired man's head up and it was Ethos' tear-streaked face that made Deimos' vision clear, got his legs moving again, and he was walking, jogging, sprinting over to the navigator standing before a wretched husk of a ship and crying so hard he could barely keep his eyes open. The acrid smell of burning metal and plastic stung Deimos' nose, made his eyes tear up, and medics were shouting at him to step back but Deimos ignored it all, focus tunneled down onto a single image, the image of Ethos' shocked pale eyes making brief contact with his, still feeling the jolt of responding surprise shooting through his body as he reached the navigator at last. 

"Ethos!" Deimos tried to shout over the noise, but his panicked hiss was lost among the chattering of the medics, the orders of the commanding officers. " _Ethos_!" It was clear that the boy couldn't hear him, or couldn't register his own name being called even as medics plucked at his clothes and officers tried to pull him away from his ship-- the navigator was trapped in his own little world, stuck in the trauma he'd likely just experienced, rooted to the ground like a tree that no one had the time or patience to uproot. It was pure luck that Deimos ended up being pushed towards Ethos, shoved forwards with the tide of first responders, so that when Ethos was finally in arm's reach Deimos was able to snag the boy's jacket and pull Ethos towards himself. The fighter craned his neck desperately to reach the delicate shell of Ethos' ear as the navigator struggled against him, confused and distracted by the trauma of it all. 

"Ethos, Ethos, puzhalsta, shh, _shh_ , please, Ethos, _please,_ " Deimos begged in his ugly rasp, hands reaching for whatever they could find, but Ethos was stronger than he looked, and far more flexible, and he kept slipping out of Deimos' grip too easily, too quickly for the fighter to catch him. "No, wait--" 

But Ethos was still screaming, loud and painful, so Deimos finally grabbed the navigator's head and shoved forcefully it into the crook of his shoulder, holding the boy's neck tightly so as to prevent escape. He wasn't sure what it was that made the boy's throat finally close up with a sudden, cut-off sob, whether it was the lack of air he was receiving or Deimos' heavy-handed attempt at comfort that had done the trick. 

Deimos pushed at Ethos' shoulders a bit, wanting to draw back and see his face, check if he was okay, if he was better now, but Ethos clung to him in a death grip so tight that the fighter immediately relented. Deimos didn't know how long they stood there, ignoring the rush of noise and people around them, but it felt like years had passed before Ethos' silent weeping began to subside, violent shaking spiraling down into something more manageable, something that didn't make Deimos' heart feel like it was breaking apart just thinking about it.

He was about to try and pull back from Ethos once more when a sudden _boom!_ echoed from the ship beside them. A strange silence fell over the hangar, people pausing momentarily to turn to the smoking Tiberius with something akin to morbid curiosity as the middle of it abruptly bulged outwards in several parts, appearing almost sentient in its odd fluctuations. It was because of this that everyone saw when the Tiberius blew up; little warning, just one second it was there and whole and then it wasn't, then it was flying across the hangar bay in bits and pieces with a thundering roar that momentarily deafened half the people who'd been standing too close. 

Sound and action seemed to resume all at once as a mixture of molten glass and metal began raining down on those below, and Ethos was screaming again, full-force, choking on his own sobs as he yelled out for his fighter, fighting Deimos with renewed strength. It took all of Deimos' efforts plus two other people nearby to hold him back, stop him from running into the burning ruins of his ship and getting himself killed in the process. A stray piece of glass fell edge-first into Deimos' arm, slicing through the material of his uniform and then melting into his skin, bubbling and _hss_ ing painfully, painful enough so that Deimos let go of Ethos for a split second as his arm spasmed. The hysterical navigator took this opportunity to dart between the throng of people blocking his way and run flat-out towards what was left of his ship, gulping in air desperately and releasing his fighter's name in its stead, as though if he cried it long enough and loud enough he might finally get a response. The navigator tore at chunks of fused metal and glass unblinkingly, throwing the rubble out of the way as he dug frantically into the mess to search for his fighter. A strangely bubbling and viscous material slid stealthily through his fingers and it must've hurt because Ethos stopped and reared up abruptly. Something horrible twisted across his face for a split second before his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell, a terribly fragile beacon of light disappearing amongst the rubble. Nobody caught him in time, no one was willing to get that close to the remains of the ship, and vaguely Deimos could hear Bering warning him as he raced towards the navigator's prone body, telling him to get back, but nothing was making sense in Deimos' mind except the need to protect Ethos, and he didn't understand why other people weren't trying to help, why Ethos had run away from him, why any of this was happening at all, and it would be a long time before the Tiberius' demise and what it meant would click properly in his thoughts, either.


	2. CAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your amazing comments, and special thanks to a-social-construct for beta'ing!!! <333

It had been stars and spinning for so long that Cain could hardly tell what was going on, wouldn't even have known that Abel had managed to fly them somehow in the hangar bay if it wasn't for the incredible _thud_ that signaled a terrible landing, but a landing nonetheless. His stomach churned uncomfortably and his thoughts seemed distant, floating away with his limbs, with the air, with the gravity. 

Startling quiet; his own deep breaths; and then Cain tried to stand, tried to turn around, because he had to check, had to know--

Abel was sitting in the same place as always, seemingly unharmed, though his face was whiter than Cain had ever seen it and his hands were clenched around the navigational orb so tightly the bones of his knuckles shone through like pearls. 

"Abel," Cain grunted softly, and then, when the navigator didn't respond, sharper; "Abel!"

It was the way that Abel stared at him, glassy-eyed and lost that made Cain curse and struggle to get out of his seat, settle for ripping part of his uniform with the belt so that he could stumble up only to fall to his knees, practically crawl his way over to where his navigator sat, unmoving, frozen. 

"Princess-" Scared so bad now by Abel's lack of reaction that Cain wanted to be rough with him, knew it would only make things worse, tried to be gentle instead; "We landed, okay? We landed, we're fine. We're fine! The fuck's gotten into you," Cain babbled helplessly as he tore at Abel's hands, trying to pull them off the orb, trying to pull him out of the ship. "Let _go_ , for fuck's sake, you crazy basta--" 

"Cain," a soft cry reached his ears, so soft and so broken that it took a moment to realize it came from Abel's lips. ""They're dead, Cain," Abel whimpered, entire face crumpling like wet paper, and it took even longer for Cain to put back together the memories in his head of spinning stars, of bright flashes, of strange, unfamiliar cries crackling over the intercom before everything all went to hell.

He wasn't sure who exactly was dead but it didn't matter, not when he and Abel were still alive, not when they still had yet to get out of their own damn ship, their own personal death trap, which was leaking coolant and smoke alike, clouding what little air was left in the tiny chamber and making Abel cough. "C'mon, Princess," Cain responded insistently, and this time when he tugged at Abel's arm Abel let go of the orb at last, slowly, moving as though unfamiliar with the way his body worked, as though he was underwater and everything was tugging him back down into his seat despite Cain's desperate urging. 

Somehow they got the hatch open, both of them gulping in the stale air of the hangar bay, with Abel practically hyperventilating and Cain trying hard not to slip as he half-carried them both down the ladder to the ground. Something warm and wet was trailing down his leg, making every step a precarious one, and despite his best efforts Cain's boot slid right off the last rung and straight to the ground, yanking Cain down with it and Abel along with him. 

Two pairs of feet met the floor at last and together they trembled against the hot hull of the ship, Abel's arms around Cain's neck, Cain's body and hands holding them both upright tremulously against the blistering metal of the _Reliant_. Abel was murmuring something into his neck that sounded like a repeated apology, over and over, though Cain had no idea why and no time to understand. Abel's shivering body against his set alarms off in his head, loud enough to distract him from the sudden explosion behind them. 

Cain didn't turn fast enough to see the Tiberius collapse in on itself momentarily and then explode outwards, only ducked his head down just in time to miss a piece of flying shrapnel, hugging Abel's torso to his body as protection. Something thumped across his back and when Cain picked his head back up he saw that something had hit Abel's face as well, cut across his forehead and sent blood streaming down his delicate features, so out of place that for a moment Cain was convinced he must be dreaming. 

"Princess?" he heard his hoarse voice come out, sounding so normal, so completely unfazed, and it made an odd harmony with the screams inside his head, the absolute panic bubbling up from deep in his stomach to his chest and setting him aflame. Whatever hit his back had done quite some damage; a searing lance of white-hot pain shot up his spine, and Cain pulled Abel's body underneath him as he collapsed without a second thought, so that Abel's pallid, immobile face lay inches from his, close enough for his frantic puffs of air to stir the navigator's delicate locks, close enough that Cain could feel that the navigator wasn't breathing with him. 

"No," he whispered, bringing a quivering hand up to stroke at Abel's face, smearing blood down his cheek and over his pointed nose, "No, no, baby, no, _Я не могу жить без тебя_ , baby, wake up, stop doing this to me, you're hurting me, you're--"

"The fuck are you _doing_?!" someone behind him screamed, and Cain felt his body being lifted off of Abel's and struggled, fought back as hard as he could, hissing and spitting and feeling up his pants leg for his knife but it was gone, must've fallen back in the ship, everything gone slippery and red and then Abel was out of his grasp completely. Whoever had been holding him let go abruptly and Cain's axis immediately spun out of control, the crowded hanger seeming obscenely large and terribly claustrophobic all at once now that he could finally see it clearly. It was with a fearful start Cain found that he couldn't catch his breath for shit, wasn't getting anything in in between his urgent heaves-- somebody nearby began thumping on his back before he could protest, wrenching a proper inhalation out of him after a few especially hard thumps, and for several long moments Cain was too shaky to do anything but crouch down and let in what air he could. Somewhere in between heavy, wracking coughs his voice came back to him in a rush, and instead of incoherent wheezes and terrible little choking noises he managed to gasp out, "My navig--?" 

"He's been taken away by the medics," someone informed him, and the last thing he felt before darkness closed in around him was terrible fear, and terrible relief.


	3. DEIMOS

"…been four casualties in total; Soldier Aelius, Soldier Praxis, Soldier Caesar, and Soldier Laxus. All died honorably in combat; the funeral processions will be held this coming Tuesday, 0700 hours."

Muffled sobs and a snapped " _Quiet!_ " sounded from the crowd as Cook had his assistant continue to read off the list, citing fifteen wounded and ten still in medical. Deimos felt the fighter beside him shudder almost imperceptibly before hastening to make his way out of the crowd. The larger man had the right idea and Deimos followed the path he created as he snuck his way out of the mess, trying not to seem disrespectful but urgently needed to leave all the same. It was too much for him, too much naked emotion, too much raw pain. Miraculously, Deimos had barely been harmed at all amidst the mission chaos and the following explosion back in the hangar bay. It felt strange, lonely, unfair for him to be standing here besides so many wounded souls, him with just a scratch on his arm, a new scar in good company with all the others. 

Not when his own wounded soldier was sleeping in medical, still unconscious almost a full day after the explosion, so much of his blood smeared across the hull of the wrecked _Reliant_ , so much of it puddled on the ground, yet to be mopped up by Vicks and the other janitors, the former of which had been given the day off for grieving-- Deimos wasn't sure who it had been, but the rumor was going around that Vicks' lover had died in the line of fire, before he even got to dock again, so at least it had been fast. 

"Sir?" he heard someone ask behind him, solemn and hopeful at once; "how many Colterons did we get?"

A ringing silence followed, a sharp "ouch!" and a shuffling of feet before Cassius resumed his pre-prepared speech, and Deimos slipped out of the auditorium without looking back.

He couldn't remember Cain's presence during the explosion, and guilt wormed its way through his body uncomfortably. It had been the first time Deimos hadn't stopped to see that Cain got out of the _Reliant_ safely, had run straight over to Ethos instead, the very first thing, didn't even check up on his own navigator before that. 

Nothing to do to change that, far too late to change that, and he didn't even regret it that much. Still, Deimos hoped to see Cain before everyone else crowded medical, hopefully before the other fighter woke up and put two and two together enough to realize that Deimos had abandoned him at the very worst time, at the one time where it really mattered, that he hadn't even tried to protect Cain's navigator like he'd been ordered to so long ago. The tense line of Deimos' shoulders was already sore from the muscles being drawn so tight, but he wasn't scared, not really, he knew Cain would never abandon him no matter what he did, except that Cain kind of had already, had left his little mouse back in the dust the second he decided that his precious 'princess' was worth far more. 

He couldn't hate Cain for that, because Cain was right.

Deimos was starting to understand the pull towards the strange, pale, wet-eyed navigators that Cain had always seemed to have and Deimos had just begun to feel. Finally beginning to understand the need to protect something even if it didn't do him any good, even if it didn't get him a place to sleep at night and some hot food in his belly. Even if it didn't keep him sane and safe in the dark dungeons where the fighters crawled, even if it put him in more danger than he was in before. 

It was nothing like loving Cain, loving a navigator. Everything that Deimos expected to be smoke and anger and hard angles, elbows digging into his side, fists catching the line of his jaw, was just so much softer instead, clearer, quieter, sadder but still so gentle, always so gentle that Deimos sometimes wondered who the navigator saw when he looked at the fighter because he couldn't be seeing Deimos, not as he really is, not for what he really deserves. 

Maybe it would be okay if Cain kicked him out. Maybe he had someone else to see, as well. 

The walk to medical was eerily silent, hallways deserted and lights dim as power was rerouted to the specific areas of the ship that needed it, medical, the engines, powering up the remaining ships. Quiet enough that his light footsteps echoed as he walked, spooking him and making him think there was someone behind him over and over, not used to hearing himself, his raspy breathing, his pounding heartbeat. One of those walks where the light at the end of the hall seemed to get further and further away, where no matter how long and how far he walked he never quite reached his destination, until he passed through an unlocked hatch and was greeted by the bright, sterile lighting signifying the entrance to the medical wing. He was barely a step into this new world when a clean, put-together navigator appeared just around the corner, bright and unruly curls bouncing as he walked, and for a second Deimos was convinced that there was still blood dripping off them, terrible choked noises still coming out of the mouth below. 

"You?" he hissed questioningly as the mop of hair neared, surprised and angry to see the navigator outside of medical. Ethos must have understood Deimos' meaning because he blushed slightly and held up his heavily bandaged hands for Deimos to see. 

"They kicked me out; too crowded. Besides, I'm fine now," Ethos insisted, and he wasn't fooling anyone but himself if he thought Deimos would buy it, not with the way his voice shook ever so slightly in time with his hands. 

"Go back," Deimos ordered, not liking one bit the way Ethos' face hardened at his tone. 

"No!" the blonde responded, surprising them both with his assertiveness. Deimos gave him his best double-barreled glare, but it appeared the navigator was getting too used to it because even though Ethos dropped his gaze a moment later he mumbled rebelliously, "'M not your _child_ …"

This softened Deimos somewhat, tugging at his heartstrings in a way that Ethos' soft declarations always did. He reached a hand up to gently push away some fallen curls from Ethos' face, offering the boy a small, almost imperceptible smile as he did. _Sorry_.

"S'ok," Ethos replied bashfully, gratefully, flicking his eyes back up at Deimos coyly as he continued, "I'm not much use here anyways, I should probably just go back to my room…" It took a long, awkward pause for Deimos to realize what the blonde was waiting for. 

"Phobos is out," Deimos said belatedly, and that was all the invitation Ethos needed.


	4. CAIN

Lights. So bright, so much brighter than white that it hurt Cain's head just thinking about it, hurt his eyes even more. Something beeping near him sounding like a fucking bulldozer, working like a fucking spear, entering his ears and piercing his brain until it was hard to pay attention to anything but the pounding of his blood rushing in his ears, pulsing behind his temple, and fuck, he felt like shit. Worse than the worst fucking hangover he ever could've imagined when he finally pried his eyes open reluctantly, gummed up as they were with something or other, lashes sticking to his face uncomfortably as he peered up at the ceiling above him. 

"Feel like shit," he tried to say, but it came out instead as a low moan, a small " _ffffshht_ " sound that he didn't like at all, that made him sound fucking weak, fucking broken, the rasp in his voice sounding too much like Myshonok. Idly he wondered where the fighter was anyways, hoped he was checking up on Abel, because that head wound had looked fucking terrible when he'd seen it. 

_Abel…_

" _Blyat!_ " Cain exclaimed, and this time it came out just like it was supposed to, if not quieter than he would've preferred. Things seemed to come together all at once as he focused his gaze at last, drawn curtains and various machines materializing around him clearly enough so that he could tell he was in medical, pressed into a hard mattress by tucked-in sheets, everything uncomfortable and cold and too sterile, too foreign for him to settle back in and try to sleep despite the heavy weights that seemed to be pushing down on his eyes.

The fighter tried to sit up but his head was pounding and alongside the tiredness a sudden dizziness swept over him, enough to make him gag with nausea halfway up and fall back down into the pillows with a thump, pillows which he could feel were damp and sticky from his own sweat, sliding uneasily against the back of his neck. His movements felt strange, slow, and his skin felt hypersensitive, cool to the touch and somehow sore all over, sore in places he didn't know he could be. 

Cain glanced down when he felt a tug at his arm; an IV. Pathetic. Didn't look like it was giving him anything important, some slightly white-ish fluid dripping into him slowly so he yanked it out, ignoring the stinging pain it left in its stead. "Abel," he griped aloud, voice cracking halfway through. Cleared his throat and tried again, loud enough this time to catch someone's attention; "ABEL!" 

Strange groan from behind the curtain to his left; hurried footsteps running up from his right, tearing the mock wall back and moving immediately towards the fallen IV. "Patients are trying to rest," a sharp voice admonished, and something in the sneering tone made Cain's hackles rise even further, and he knocked the IV out of the stupid nurse's hand, sat up again, didn't fall down this time, demanded angrily, "Abel! Where is he?!" 

A heavy frown greeted him as he raised his gaze to the nurse's face, and it wasn't a nurse, it was Phobos, and if that wasn't weird he didn't know what was. 

"Your stupid navigator's still in the OR," Phobos told him snidely, "getting his stupid head stitched up." 

"Good," Cain grunted, swinging his legs off the mattress, getting ready to push himself up, "Haven't been asleep for long then." 

A dainty hand pressed into his chest, just enough to keep him down, and he glanced up at Phobos' abruptly stormy expression confusedly. "What?"

"You've been asleep for most of a day," Phobos responded, sounding reluctant, and Cain saw red.

"I've been asleep for that long and they still haven't put Abel's fucking head back together?!" Cain roared, and it must've scared Phobos bad because the navigator immediately jumped back, holding his hands up in a placating gesture that looked foreign on him. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?!"

"I'm not a fucking docto-- get _back here!_ " Phobos snapped as Cain lumbered out of his bed, limping as fast as he could away from his captor. Something funny was up with his leg, he couldn't quite seem to get it off the ground as he walked so he just sort of dragged it instead, because it was heavy, it felt like someone had tied a fucking log to him while he was asleep, a fucking log that somehow still managed to send sharp lances of pain up into his hips, his chest. 

"Oi, you should be fucking thanking me!" Phobos screamed after him, and Cain snorted. "I'm the one who kept you from killing your goddamn navigator then and there!"

That made him pause. He whirled around-- tried to, at least, ended up stumbling halfway through his spin unceremoniously and filled with a sudden handful of Phobos, who'd been coming up behind him. He shoved the navigator away with a snarl, ignoring the way it made the pain in his leg flare up, the dizziness in his head become more pronounced. " _Thefuckdoes_ that _mean_ ," he hissed, fast and furious, and when the corner of Phobos' lips twitched upwards it took all of Cain's willpower not to punch him out.

"You were fucking _suffocating_ him, lying on top of him, nobody fucking noticed except for me. You owe me," Phobos sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest superiorly. "I saved your navigator's worthless life."

Barely a second before Cain was up in his face, snarling full-force now, grabbing his collar roughly and pulling until Phobos' feet were almost entirely off the floor, leg and strange dizziness be damned. "Say that again to my fucking face, you useless sack of shit--"

"Reliant!" A strange, strangled voice floated in from the curtain beside them. "Shut the _fuck up_!" Cain dropped Phobos with a scowl, ignoring the navigator's unceremonious yelp as he yanked the other curtain back. 

"Hey, how 'bout _you_ shut the fuck--"

He wasn't ready for what he saw. 

Encke's eyes were half-closed in pain, and he was looking at Cain through glazed-over eyes. "Shhutfuck _up_ ," Encke repeated, mumbling this time, and the image of Encke's burned, scarred, partially-melted face persisted vividly in his mind's eye even as Phobos quietly drew the curtain shut.


	5. ABEL

It didn't feel like he'd been asleep for very long, but he must've been because when he finally rose back to consciousness it felt like reaching for the surface of a deep ocean, limbs tired and heavy like he'd swimming for miles and miles in the dark, lungs screaming out for air as he was able at last to drag his head up above the water and take several measured gasps. 

" _Ah, he'sawk,_ " a voice floated past him, and it took him precious seconds to interpret it into "Ah, he's awake". Garbled sounds washed over him that didn't quite make sense to his ears, and nothing felt like it was working properly, a dull ache in his head starting up slowly, hesitantly, and then moving to a full-on pounding that made him groan, clutch at his head in sympathy. A quick pinch at the crook of his arm and something blessedly cool flowed through him, and when he fell back into the sheets it felt like falling into a cloud. 

"M' up?" Ethan dragged out drowsily, not sure what he meant by it, just wanting the voices around him to settle down. 

"Can you open your eyes for us, Abel?" a voice asked, clipped and oddly familiar, and Ethan's eyes opened almost involuntarily at the order. Not so bad now with the drugs flowing through his veins, still had to blink his eyes several times to make out the shapes rising up above him, a large, stocky body to his left, a far skinnier one to his right, in a typical Alliance uniform paired with unusually long, near-white hair--

"Oh-- Lieutenant Keeler!"

Ethan struggled to push himself up further, right himself from his position in the bed-- why was he in a bed? Didn't matter, had to make himself presentable-- he tried to pat nervously at his hair but the IV tugging on the back of his hand gave him pause, and after several moments of staring he set it back down again slowly, managed to sit up just enough to be more on level with the two men looking down at him. 

"Did.. did something happen, Lieutenant?" Ethan asked haltingly, when Keeler's eyes refused to meet his. 

"Well, that's what we're here to find out, Abel," the taller man replied gently, and Ethan wondered at the odd name he kept being called, wondered if he'd been given his assignment and code name already while he'd been incapacitated, however that had happened. 

"Do you know who I am, son?" Bering asked carefully, snagging his attention away from his circumstance, and Ethan nodded at the sight of the man's broad shoulders and dark hair striped with white. Bering smiled as Ethan opened his mouth to speak. 

"Commander Bering, sir. I was told to meet up with you once I boarded the Slepnir to receive my assignment."

Somber eyes bore into his as the Commander quirked his head ever so slightly to the side. "Yes, of course, and you did." 

"I did?" Ethan's brow scrunched up. Silence between them now, so tense and potent that it made even Ethan frown. He thought fast, analyzing the looks on his superior's faces, figuring out what they'd been expecting him to say, prepared himself to lie about it-- and then a nurse was swooping in and gesturing at him furiously, and someone was shouting that unfamiliar name again in a gruff, slightly-panicked voice. Abruptly everything was submerged in chaos, everyone around him talking all at once again, the Lieutenant moving to block Ethan's vision with his white uniform and swinging hair, the man's sharp, clipped voice rising up above the ruckus; 

"Get him out of here- I said get him _out_! Phobos, if you can't handle this--"

"--I can, I can, just give me a sec-- ow, _christ_ , you fucking prick, did you really just--"

"--Reliant that's an order or it's off to the brig--"

"-- _My fucking navigator_ \--" 

"Guards!" 

A quick scuffle and then silence; a drowsy murmur and a hastily drawn curtain and Keeler was moving away at last, ignorant of Ethan's hands scrabbling at his back, his arms, trying to catch his attention and ask what was going on. 

Commander Bering turned to face the bed and Ethan was struck by the strange look in his eyes, something between amusement and incredible anxiety. "He'd better get better soon or we'll be down our best fighter too," the Commander huffed tersely, fingers tugging at his beard as he gazed at the navigator lying prone before him.

"Who was that?" Ethan asked, not sure who he should be directing his question to, taking advantage of the incredibly frazzled nurse whose eyes slid over to his. "Sir? Who was that?" 

"Well I think it's an improvement," the nurse stated instead to the Lieutenant, who frowned heavily and shooed him out. The nurse's swinging gait had barely disappeared when Keeler sighed, dropped down into the chair beside Ethan's bed and put his head into his hands. 

"I suppose we should put you in for a psych eval," the blonde told his fingers, and Ethan felt a pang of nervousness curling up at the pit of his belly. 

"With all due respect, Lieutenant… can you tell me what's happened? The last thing I remember is boarding the Federal Alliance ship, the- the Slepnir-- and then, I- I--" A heavy headache pulsed to life in his temples once more and he stopped, the pain hardly worth the effort of speaking, of remembering, and he settled instead for watching the Lieutenant anxiously for a response. 

The man didn't raise his head as he spoke. "There was an accident, Ab- Ethan. I suppose you've blocked it out of your memory, or there's been some damage to your brain. Your head took a fairly heavy hit from one of our other ships. We'll..." Lieutenant Keeler sat up abruptly, used the metal support of Abel's bed to pull himself up so that he was standing once more, looking paler and more exhausted than Ethan remembered having ever seen him in the Academy. "Enough." The blonde strode past Ethan's bed without another glance at him, straight-backed as he addressed Commander Bering directly. 

"I'm going to see my fighter; clearly there isn't anything more I can do here. I'll have an orderly sent over to examine Ethan properly. But in the meantime, I-- thank you," he interrupted himself, a little breathless as the Commander nodded before he'd even finished, already hurrying out of the room and out of Ethan's sight. 

As the Lieutenant took his leave the Commander turned the chair delicately until it was facing Ethan directly, lowering himself into it with something akin to a groan. Ethan tried not to squirm under his heavy gaze, feeling like a new recruit all over again without Lieutenant Keeler there to remind him of all the training he'd been through to get to this point.

"My apologies, Ethan. Commander Cook would be here, but he's otherwise occupied with the other… well, he's helping to clean the ship up, shall we say. In the meantime--" Bering steepled his fingers, staring intently into Ethan's eyes, "There are several issues we quite urgently need to discuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the comments, everyone!!!<3 And sorry for the long wait between chapters!


	6. CAIN

The door was locked when he reached it. Deimos would never have changed the code without telling him so it must've been his prick of a navigator, probably getting revenge for making his job in the clinic harder. More than worth it for the look on his face when Cain had bitten him earlier. The fighter pounded on the door with a knuckled fist, tried not to lean on his wonky leg as he waited. 

"Deimos, open the fuck up! We've gotta talk!" A rapid shuffling inside followed a small intake of breath, anxious and fairly close to the door. 

Which did not open.

Cain was straight up propping himself along the doorway now, his leg twitching spastically in a manner that threatened to send him tumbling right there in the hall. Anger pulsed along with the pain; he knew he ought to be off his feet, could still hear his ears ringing from Phobos' irritated screech. But he'd be damned if he was going around in fucking crutches, or worse, a wheelchair-- would've let Abel persuade him to be pushed around a bit, would've let Abel pamper him and milked it quite a lot, except that Abel was busy being pampered in the fucking OR, too good to check in on his fucking fighter, too good to let Cain know that he was okay. And no one else bothered to tell him a damn thing, so Cain was here, because with shit like this Myshonok always had his ways of finding out.

Cain took a deep breath, forcing the shake out of his voice as he banged on the door some more, raising his voice to near-obscene levels.

"Deimos! I know you're in there, I can hear you dropping your fucking pants for me--"

"--h! Hell- Hello, Cain," a timid voice said, and Cain barely managed to stop his fist from knocking right into the navigator's head. 

"The fuck," Cain answered in lieu of a greeting, peering at Phobos' unmarked arm and wishing he'd bitten harder. His eyes snapped up to Phobos' and he growled, "They finally kicked you out of the clinic, huh, Phobos? Realized how shit your bedside manner was?" 

Phobos stared at him confusedly, mouth open in a slight gape. His hand rose, chubby, bandage-wrapped fingers pointing at his chest. "I'm Etho--" 

Cain shoved him aside unceremoniously, not bothering to listen to his pathetic attempts at insults. "Oi, Myshonok! We need to fucking talk, you little shit, where the fuck…" he trailed off as he found he was speaking to an empty room, rumpled bedsheets where Deimos should have been. He heard the navigator stammer something behind him, recognized the sounds of someone showering in the bathroom next to them. Cain grimaced at the thought of seeing Phobos' boyfriend naked, decided to beat a hasty retreat before he was stuck in that awkward situation.

"Just tell Deimos I'm looking for him," he snarled to Phobos on the way out, slightly pleased with the way the navigator's face turned beet red.


	7. ETHOS

Ethos frowned at the door for several moments after Cain had left, willing the hot flush in his cheeks to lessen before he went in to tell Deimos what had happened. It took several beats before the navigator gave it up as a lost cause. Heading over to the bathroom, he knocked lightly on the door. 

Ethos called softly, "Deimos?" He heard the sound of the shower being turned off abruptly, the soft rustle of clothes being pulled on. 

"Da?" an equally soft voice replied after a minute, and Ethos cracked the door open just enough to see Deimos' bright eyes shining back at him. 

"It's-- um--"

"Who was here?" Deimos asked, kind and curious, and Ethos' breath caught. 

"Um-- Phobos. He just stopped by for some things," the navigator heard himself respond. 

His hands throbbed in time with his conscience. It was selfish, but it was too soon. Cain would take Deimos away, take another fighter away from him when Ethos couldn't abide thinking about his first fighter's face, kept telling himself it was all a dream. God knew the memories were hazy enough for him to even half-believe it, blurred with pain and tears. And he hadn't actually seen Praxis _after_ the explosion at all. Ethos had seen him before-- seen him by the ship, standing upright and looking-- calm, if not vaguely confused, like he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there but was alright with it all the same. 

That part Ethos remembered clearly, because he wasn't sure when Praxis had gotten out of the ship at all. Even in the midst of all the yelling and action he remembered the guilt hitting him like a punch to the stomach, threatening to double him over if he hadn't been tethered in place by Praxis' tranquil gaze.

He remembered the sickening thump of a canon hitting its mark, stars turning into streaks before his eyes as the ship reeled out of control. He remembered the ship hitting the ground (a miracle; not because of anything he'd done, with his shaking hands and trembling heart, which had always been less than perfect and would surely give out on him soon). In his mind's eye the navigator could see himself scrambling to get out of the smoking seat, throwing all his weight against Praxis in an attempt to push them both out of the hatch. But the man wouldn't move, looked stunned and almost awed, as if he was having a revelation Ethos was too stupid and too impatient to understand. 

He remembered fleeing the ship without Praxis, certain the man was following him or maybe convincing himself of that lie afterwards. He was a navigator, and certain instincts had been drilled into him from the very start; be smart, be fast, and never, _ever_ stay in a ship that smells heavy and sweet, like his grandmother's cooking on holidays. 

Because that smell meant you were going to die, in a fiery, painful, horrific way, and that smell alone made Ethos desperate to do what he'd never done before: leave his fighter behind, and screw all the rest. 

He hadn't seen Praxis after the explosion, had just seen Praxis' single eye widen and then the explosion itself, too bright to look at directly during and then too dark with smoke to distinguish after. He hadn't seen him after, and that was the important part, the part Ethos kept clinging to almost against his will. 

It couldn't matter anyhow. Not until someone told him otherwise, and not now while Ethos was safe in Deimos' room, watching him move quietly around and fiddle with things he couldn't see. The rest of the world could wait outside. The nurses had told him he was "good" again, good to go and good to leave, and that meant he was, because he couldn't bear not to be. 

Deimos moved closer and put his arms around him in that delicate, hesitating way he always did, and maybe Ethos' heart actually _had_ given out awhile back. Because beyond feeling selfish, Ethos had the distinct feeling that ever since the explosion, he hadn't really felt anything at all.


	8. KEELER

Keeler had been stuck with the navigator evaluations because all the _actual_ psychologists were stuck with the fighters, many of whom were going stir-crazy and most of whom were deemed a far greater risk than 'Keeler's kids'. He'd gotten the basic training years ago and had been through enough psych evals to get the general idea, but the assignment still irked him and he wondered how he'd ever be able to focus when his thoughts had been whirling nonstop since the accident, anxiety filling his every breath.

Or rather-- it hadn't been an accident at all. That much was clear. Sabotaged from the inside out, one soldier's defection spreading through the ranks like an illness, taking out ship after ship, marking their greatest and worst loss yet. Their base was new, some of the hallways still shining and smelling of soldering and disinfectant, some rooms lying unused that many of the officers didn't even know about, had yet to find and find a use for. 

They were supposed to be bigger and better than anyone that came before them. Only the top 10% of navigators and fighters pumped out from the last three years of the system, tested and re-tested constantly until their success on the field was assured. But clearly which side of the field that would be hadn't been tested well enough, though Bering and Cook weren't admitting to a thing, quick to turn stony-faced and silent whenever Keeler pried. 

Not that he was giving his investigative technique its all, these days, when he could hardly bring himself to care about basic things like eating, and sleeping, and doing anything that wasn't staring at Encke and wondering where he'd gone so wrong.

Keeler sighed and set down his clipboard. He rubbed his eyes until he saw spots in them, and then leaned back in his seat and folded his hands carefully over one knee. There. That looked-- and felt-- a bit more professional. Like he was in control. Like maybe he actually cared one bit about all the people who were bound to come rushing into his office at any second now. _It's important to pretend to care_ , Bering had told him, and if Keeler couldn't quite comprehend that now then he'd simply fake it until he could. He took one deep breath, then two, going a bit lightheaded with the last one, determinedly ignoring how his fingers itched to unlock and his legs twitched every couple of seconds, tempted to jiggle or stretch or run. 

Everything felt tensed up and painful, but nothing felt quite painful enough. Not for what he deserved. Not for what Encke was getting.

A tentative knock on the door broke him out of his reverie. Only one of his navigators knocked like that. The legs of Keeler's chair hit the ground with a thump and he hadn't even noticed he'd been leaning back, almost on the edge of falling over. 

"Ah, Ethos, do come in-- just give me one moment to get everything prepared," Keeler called distractedly, patting down his hair and his suit and his emotions all at once. He gathered his papers in a rush and searched his desk for a proper pen as Ethos cracked the door open, looking hesitant at first but then striding in with the strange confidence of a man walking to his doom.

Ethos' eyes were already brimming with tears by the time Keeler turned to him at last, but he held them in bravely as Keeler motioned for him to sit. 

They sat in silence for a few horribly awkward beats, eyeing each other, neither wanting to make the first move. Keeler steeled himself and gathered his wits faster than Ethos did, clearing his throat with a stern little click. 

"I trust you know why you're here." His voice came out grim, more forbidding than he'd intended, but Ethos' watery expression remained unchanged. "You should know that every navigator and fighter is going through the same evaluation as you. Think of it less as a test and more as a resource. There is no 'pass' or 'fail--" That was a lie, but what else was new? "--as we are simply here to support you in your time of need." 

It sounded bland and rehearsed. It _was_ bland and rehearsed. The quiet of the room felt heavy and claustrophobic. Keeler probably should've practiced his script more. Hindsight was 20/20, and it told him there were a lot of things he could've done more of, and better.

"They said I'm good." 

The words were stiff, not much better than Keeler's had been. But Ethos made direct eye contact at last, and that was a start. It was made less dramatic by his poor attempt to wipe at his eyes with his wounded hands. "The doctors. They said I'm good, _so_." 

It was rather pointed. Keeler sniffed, and made a note on his sheet. "Have you been experiencing any unusual symptoms lately? An inability to concentrate? Perhaps due to insomnia, or pains, or nightmares?"

" _What?_ " 

Ethos' startled exclamation seemed to catch both of them off guard. The navigator paused for a moment, jaw working, and then steamrolled forwards, damaged hands cradled tightly in one another. "Is that-- you can't be-- serious? Why would you even-- does anyone not have those symptoms?" 

"This is not about anyone else," Keeler pointed out smoothly, trying not to think about how many symptoms he'd ticked off the list for himself. "This is about you. We cannot put you back out on the field until we've ascertained your mental state." He'd expected an interruption there, maybe another exclamation, but Ethos had fallen silent. He was staring down at his bandages now, picking clumsily at a loose thread. 

"I can't work an orb with these hands now, sir," Ethos murmured quietly. Keeler couldn't help looking at Ethos' hands as well. He could trace the faint smell of antiseptic and chemical burns from here. The bandage was stained a faint orange already. It looked-- probably not as horrible as his hands did without them, but not exactly… pleasant this way, either. 

It was all nothing compared to Enke's wounds. Keeler forced that thought down with a surge of self-disgust. 

"All in due time, Ethos. One thing at a time, for now. Mental wounds can be just as important as physical ones. So I'm going to mark it down that you have those symptoms, alright? Let's go over the details. When is the last time you ate or slept?"

A small snarl was forming at the corner of Ethos' mouth, tempered by the mild tilt of the rest of it. He looked like a puppy trying very hard to growl without knowing how or why. Keeler asked a couple more questions without much hope. It was clear he wasn't going to get any proper response out of Ethos, one way or another. The navigator seemed convinced he was perfectly alright, all the while nodding his head to every symptom Keeler listed-- though when prompted, he refused to repeat them out loud. 

"Have you been feeling anxious?" 

"Yes, sir."

"But you're feeling fine?"

"Yes, sir."

"Surely you see the contradiction in that, Ethos."

"Sir." 

And that was all. Stubborn, quiet resistance, the sort Keeler wouldn't have really expected out of any of his navigators, much less this one. He'd prided himself on how his men used their words while Encke's used their fists. Perhaps he'd been too optimistic with that one, he thought, resisting the urge to once more glance at Ethos' hands. He took a deep breath, setting the clipboard down. A new approach, then, something less confrontational and more subtle. 

"Alright, Ethos. Perhaps you would first prefer to fill out this--"

"This is all _pointless_!" Ethos burst out, and Keeler realized he'd made a grave mistake: what he'd taken for brimming tears of sadness in Ethos' eyes were actually ones of anger, or maybe even not emotional tears at all but simply a marker of the fact that Ethos looked like he hadn't closed his eyes once since the-- since. "All these papers, these-- these-- it's just nonsense! It's not going to bring anyone back. And you're just gonna keep sending people out, and they're gonna d-- and their partners will come back, and get this _stupid_ evaluation that no one even cares about, because all anyone cares about is getting everyone better so they can send them out all over again. I can't fly until my hands are healed so what does it matter at all? Whether i pass this stupid thing or not doesn't even matter. So I don't have a single reason to actually be here."

Keeler had been going about this all wrong, trying to offer gentle sympathy and guidance to an openly wounded soul. It was clear that Ethos was no longer as open as he'd once been; he was bristling all over, frustrated and defensive. Keeler allowed Ethos' rush of words to wash over him, accepting the man's bluster for what it was and waiting for a moment to intervene. 

"I'm sorry you think that," Keeler said when Ethos paused to take a breath, and hated himself for it. He didn't want to have to be this person, the one who played the part of therapist while really just overriding what anyone wanted. Encke always said Keeler was a great listener, but that was because Keeler tended to occupy his time with staring at him. His unmarked face. His gorgeous body. He'd been staring a lot lately too, but he wasn't sure Encke would be as pleased about that as he usually was. 

"I'm sorry you think that," Keeler repeated, and if Ethos noticed Keeler's distraction he didn't show it. "But I'm afraid this is quite necessary not only to our ship and our system, but also to you. Ethos," he continued, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees, "you've always been my most-- sensitive navigator. And that's done you both a great service and a great disservice throughout the years. What you went through was quite traumatic. We would all understand if you--" he broke off at that point, because Ethos was standing, and for all that he looked like a little lamb when cowed, when angry the boy could loom. 

"Whatever you're about to understand, _Sir_ ," Ethos said in a shaking voice, spitting out Sir in a tone that Keeler had never heard from him, never thought him capable of. "I- I can assure you that it doesn't need any _understanding_. All I need is your permission to leave. Once my hands are healed I'll be tested all over again anyhow, right? So for now I'd rather just-- let it go. Please." 

There wasn't much Keeler could say to that. He'd gotten more than enough information in order to make the call. It was obvious Ethos wasn't okay. It was obvious that he needed help-- from a real therapist, not some Lieutenant-turned-evaluator who had his mind on other things. 

"You're dismissed, Navigator," Keeler said very tiredly after a very long pause. Ethos offered him a half-hearted, uncertain salute, looking small and abashed now that he'd gotten his way. Keeler wasn't fooled by it one bit. He almost wished Ethos would storm out, slam the door behind him before Keeler had a chance to snap the way he so badly wanted to, nerves thrumming with it. But instead Ethos stepped out quietly, looking back at Keeler with those still-watery eyes. The door slid shut quietly over Ethos' fledgling sneer. Keeler felt positively wretched. He could already feel that memory burning itself into his mind's eye. He was almost scared to blink. 

The Lieutenant heaved another great sigh, wincing a bit when it produced an answering twinge of pain. He dropped his pen to clutch at his heart for a moment, dismayed; he couldn't deal with this, not here, not _now_. 

Keeler fancied sometimes he could actually _feel_ his heart growing weaker, every beat a bit more feeble than the last. It was part genetics and part lifestyle, and Keeler couldn't give up one and wouldn't give up the other, even though Commander had warned him about this, told him it was his job on the line if he passed out while on duty again. The doctors on deck normally devoted some time every couple of days to heckling him, reminding him what happened should he get too agitated-- agitated! In a war zone!-- and telling him to slow down. But they were too busy with other things now to remind him. And the Commander wasn't here, and the only other person to ever keep him in line… 

Keeler forcefully unclenched his fingers from the fabric of his jacket, reaching for the comm unit on the desk before him. He was half-surprised to hear the call answered at all; he knew he could only push so far before the infirmary blocked his number altogether.

" _Infirmary speaking._ " 

It took Keeler several tries to get his voice to work, but when he did it came out calm and in control. 

"Yes, hello. Any news?" 

He didn't bother introducing himself; they'd know who it was by the tone.

" _Keeler_." A pause, a small sound of shuffling in the background. Keeler felt his heart sink. " _Nothing to report, sir. Doctor Freya requested that next time you call I remind you you_ will _be alerted the moment something changes, and any calls until then are unnecessary_."

"Unnecessary," Keeler repeated hollowly, glancing down at the unit. The time glowed in the upper lefthand corner: his next meeting wasn't for another hour or so. "You know, you're right. You needn't bother calling. Thank you," he said, hanging up before the nurse could reply. He'd be damned if he'd hear any news about Encke over the phone, anyhow. A vigil by his bedside would do much better. He had every right to be in the infirmary, even though technically visiting hours were over for officers of a lower rank and less determination than him. 

After all, Keeler had a bad heart.


	9. DEIMOS

Deimos thought about waiting in the hall as he walked Ethos to the appointment. He even stood there for a couple minutes after, ear pressed to the door and eyes seeking out the light from the slight below it, hoping for some clue as to what was going on. But the door was heavy and the noise muffled, and he felt like an idiot besides, even though he'd done this loads of times for Cain. But Ethos wasn't Cain, that much was perfectly clear even if nothing else was, and so after a prolonged moment of straining his senses Deimos allowed his muscles to relax, taking a step back and going over his next course of action. 

The tightness in his stomach made the decision for him if nothing else. He didn't have any orders and he wouldn't do any good in a workout without getting food in him first. He could feel his energy draining fast now that Ethos wasn't beside him; like he'd been on high alert without even noticing, and the alarm was switched off now that Ethos was in more capable hands. 

Cain was in the cafeteria, sitting right in the center of the room with his boots up on the table. He caught Deimos in his sights when Deimos froze at the door, nervous and scared and bold all at once. He held still as Cain slid his legs carefully to the ground and strode towards him, slower than usual, lopsided and off-balance and clearly trying to ignore it. He was projecting a swaggering, dangerous air that insisted everyone else around him ignore it too.

Deimos held still as Cain reached him, didn't even flinch as the other fighter lifted his hand, maybe flinched a little as it came down on the back of his neck, gentle as all hell and entirely unexpected. He wet his lips, watched as Cain's eyes flicked down to them and back up. 

"Myshonok," he said, fingers pressing down on the nape of Deimos' neck. 

"Da," Deimos answered after a pause, tone soft, accent heavy. Cain's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then spoke. 

"Why the fuck have you been avoiding me?" He probably meant it to come out harsher, but it came out plaintive instead. Cain set his teeth and tried again, half-growling as he glared. "Right when I _need_ you, you fucking _prick_ , when everything really starts to go to shit the first thing you do is run off like the coward you are--"

"Wasn't like that," Deimos interrupted softly, horrified. "Didn't-- didn't _run_ , Cain, I-- you were--" 

"You fucking left him to die! I almost killed him!" Cain roared, voice cracking at the end, and Deimos realized with a start that they weren't talking about Cain at all. Cain's hand flexed against his neck and Deimos flinched as though it was a blow. 

"I was-- you always keep your fucking head during these things, Deimos, never mind your fucking freak outs later-- I was confused and I tried-- I almost-- he was fucking suffocating, and were the _fuck_ were _you_?" 

"I didn't know," Deimos said quietly, struck by Cain's sincerity, stuck on the expression on his face. "I was- I thought- someone else needed me. Needed me more," he amended, peeping up at Cain nervously beneath long lashes. He'd expected Cain to look surprised, maybe bitter, but instead the fighter looked entirely unmoved. He looked-- disappointed, in his furious, fiery way. "You don't believe me," Deimos realized, stricken, and Cain snarled. 

"You must be a fucking genius to figure that one out, Myshonok." He pulled his hand back from Deimos' neck then, and Deimos nearly reeled back from the force of his tone alone, nothing to stop him from running now. 

"Cain--" he began, plaintive, worried, and cut off immediately when Cain raised his hand. 

"Someone else needed you? Who was it, that shit Praxis? You get all hot and bothered thinking about his screams, Myshonok? You always were into dark shit like that. Bet you fucking loved seeing his little lamb run after him to the slaughter, bleating his pretty little head off too--"

" _Stop_ ," Deimos pleaded, voice shaking. The sight of Ethos shrieking flashed through his mind, a silent film reel of horror. Sight was bad enough. He never wanted to hear that sound again.

" _'Stop'_ ," the fighter mimicked, breathy and high, and Deimos had never wanted to punch him so bad. His slim fingers itched towards his knife, but he'd never do that. Not to Cain. But to someone else? Maybe. He had to go somewhere else. To someone else. Blow off steam. The fighters tended to huddle together in the dungeon these days, the anxiety of the ship making them antsy and wired, likely to fight even more than they fucked. Deimos could use some of that energy now, he thought, and when Cain's hand came down again, hot and heavy on his shoulder this time, his knife flicked out before he'd even had time to think. Cain was drawing him into a headlock, and Deimos went with it easily, trying his best to keep his breathing even while he told his hand sternly to drop the knife. 

It didn't. 

"Gonna use that on me?" Cain's voice came, rough and mocking, hot breath rolling against the side of Deimos' face. 

"Maybe," the smaller fighter got out before Cain's arm tightened across his windpipe. 

"Fucking do it then, Myshonok. Why not? Not like you're loyal to me anymore. You must think you don't owe me shit." Cain could go on like this for days. Deimos has spent nights listening to Cain rant, his hot jealousy tying itself around Deimos' neck like a noose, like a leash, dragging him closer to Cain than ever. 

"Owe each other," Deimos panted, lips brushing against Cain's arm. He wasn't scared, really, but he was so, so _tired_. His next breath came out as a heaving sigh that transforms into a cough when Cain released him abruptly. Deimos pressed a hand to his throat, his lips, and then tucked away his knife and dared to look up. 

"Yeah," Cain said when their eyes met again. "Yeah, ain't that the truth." Something dark passed over his face, gone the moment Deimos blinked. "Fuck it. What's done is done. But we're in the goddamn red zone, Deimos, and it's time to get your act together. You understand? Abel is in the infirmary being tucked in by your fucking shit excuse of a navigator. I don't give a crap about whatever fucked up shit is in your fucked up head on your own, fucked up time. You know what you need to do."

It's a phrase Cain liked to use. The details had changed, but the message stayed the same: Protect what belongs to Cain. Destroy what doesn't. 

Deimos belonged to Cain too, sometimes, in some ways. But Cain has never thought of him as needing protection. Not from navigators with his beguiling light eyes, not from other fighters with his hidden knives, and certainly not from Cain himself. He never got protection from Cain himself.

Deimos shrugged, and allowed Cain to take it as acquiescence. Together they make their way over to a crowded table emptied quickly by Cain's glare. 

Despite the fight being over Deimos' shoulders were still tense when Ethos showed up, looking exhausted and sheepish but walking with his back straight all the same. His hands moved by his sides in a faux-casual swing and he didn't hesitate to pick through the crowd and grab a tray. Deimos purposely avoided Ethos' eyes when the navigator looked around, stomach fluttering. He knew he shouldn't want Ethos over here with Cain as he was. But part of him wanted it all the same, so he waited patiently for Ethos to decide, ignoring the curl of guilt at the base of his spine.

It didn't take long. Ethos caught sight of Deimos and immediately began heading over, seemingly unaware of Cain's presence beside him.

"Deimo--" the blonde began, before Cain smacked Ethos' tray out of his bandaged hands and down onto the table. 

"If you sit down, you shut up," the fighter growled. Ethos looked as stricken as Deimos felt. He half-heartedly fought down the bubble of warmth blooming in his belly as he nodded at Ethos to take a seat. Cain threw a smug look over to Deimos, confirming what he thought. From Cain, this was an offering. The closest to an apology he'd get. 

Cain didn't know about him and Ethos yet, then, or he'd never let them get so close. Deimos recalled slowly what Cain had said before. 

_"Who was it, that shit Praxis? You get all hot and bothered thinking about his screams, Myshonok?"_

Cain had never understood Deimos' interest in pain. He thought Deimos wanted it to himself only because he couldn't watch it on someone else. He thought Deimos tolerated pain for the sake of seeing blood, or bruises, or cuts, even if they had to be on himself. But it wasn't like that, not really. Deimos hated seeing others in pain. He hated knowing he had to cause it. It wasn't okay, it was never okay. Deimos could handle pain better than anyone else and if he could take it on himself it would help, maybe, it would make the pain less for others or at least make it even, make it okay...

Ethos' voice rose abruptly and Deimos twitched in his seat, the only indication that his thoughts had been miles away.

"--etter than the rest of us, a good man, and he fought hard and he fought _perfectly_ that day! He fought to save us all and his reward was getting b-blown up!" 

"Tch!" Cain exclaimed, brows lowering and a fierce, dark grin coming over his face. "Bastard fucking deserved it, only a matter of time 'til he kicked the bucket after becoming a fucking Cyclo--" the end of the word was cut off as a loud smack! rang through the hall, and suddenly Ethos was standing up above them, wounded hands curled loosely into fists and face gone completely red. Deimos had been floating away while they began to fight, and now it was too late to stop it. He reached out anyways but Ethos barely glanced at him, too focused on Cain to realize how much danger he was in.

"Say another fucking word!" Ethos shouted, spit flying from his lips and whole body shaking. "Say that again, you fighter coward! At least he managed to save his navigator, look at what you've ended up with!" Ethos screamed, and Deimos was on his feet as well before it'd even fully registered, knowing he should take Cain's side but remembering all too well the feel of Ethos shivering against his skin, gasping for air and crying, shaking so hard both their bodies vibrated with the strength of it. So he took the crook of Ethos' elbow instead, trying to be gentle about it, trying to convey the message and feeling of _calm_ , but the navigator wasn't having it. Instead he wrenched his arm out of Deimos' grasp, bending over the table to get even closer to the scowling fighter before him, trying to grab his collar, unable to with his damaged hands, settling for pounding his fists against Cain's shoulders as though to beat some sense into him. 

" _Answer me!_ " Ethos shrieked, completely hysterical, and to everyone's surprise and probably his own Cain simply sat there and took it, wide-eyed and silent with his mouth sealed shut in a tight, compact line. Hasty footsteps sounded behind Deimos and he turned just in time to see Phobos running over to them, mouth open and looking aghast.

"Ethos, that's enough!" Phobos exclaimed sternly, moving as though to pry Ethos off Cain, stopping just before he touched them. "You know this asshole just says shit like that to rile us up. You know he-- you know we're all rooting for Abel, and--" Phobos' face scrunched up like he was eating something sour, but he continued all the same, "--and you know Abel would want us to treat him like he isn't trash. Especially with what he's going through right now," Phobos added, blushing slightly and refusing to make eye contact with the aforementioned fighter even though Cain was staring at him confusedly. 

After a moment of silence Cain grunted, reaching up at last to push Ethos' weakened hands off him, firm but far gentler than anyone had expected him to be. "I'm not a fucking pansy, don't need to be fucking coddled," Cain muttered, but the barb was half-hearted, misery dripping off his words and showing plainly on his face. Ethos sat back down now that he was released, falling into his seat with an air of heavy exhaustion, like the simple act of challenging Cain had taken all the energy out of him in one swoop. Deimos considered putting an arm around him, stopped before he'd even begun, eyeing Cain wearily and wondering what was next, how long they could go on like this.


End file.
